


the way a traveler knows a traveler

by hypotheticalfanfic



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alcohol, Bathroom Sex, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-21
Updated: 2011-07-21
Packaged: 2017-10-21 14:56:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/226448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hypotheticalfanfic/pseuds/hypotheticalfanfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It has been three years, eight months, two weeks, and six days since they’ve seen each other; one year, four months, one week, and two days since they’ve spoken; and two weeks and three days since they’ve double-checked each others’ location. They have fucked fourteen times in the eight years they’ve known each other; the last time was three years, eight months, and two weeks ago. This will be the fifteenth time, and Arthur is vibrating in his skin."</p>
            </blockquote>





	the way a traveler knows a traveler

It has been three years, eight months, two weeks, and six days since they’ve seen each other; one year, four months, one week, and two days since they’ve spoken; and two weeks and three days since they’ve double-checked each others’ location. They have fucked fourteen times in the eight years they’ve known each other; the last time was three years, eight months, and two weeks ago. This will be the fifteenth time, and Arthur is vibrating in his skin.

Toying with a drink is one of his few tells. When Arthur isn’t nervous, he’ll sip carefully or gulp down drinks. He only fiddles with them when he’s panicking. This doesn’t happen very often: him being nervous, or him waiting for Eames in a bar neither of them particularly like, or him getting geared up to have sex. Arthur doesn’t really do sex, not that often (with a few notable exceptions); not from lack of opportunity, but from lack of interest. But Eames is different, has always been different. Arthur has never been able to not want to fuck Eames, and he has only barely managed to control that need, that ache, that hunger so that they can work together without killing each other or going at it on the nearest desk. 

That image sticks in his mind, strong and clear and shooting straight to his cock, and he makes a note to ask Eames about sneaking into the warehouse later. Immediately deletes that note, because it’s unprofessional and also Eames would be way too into it and they’d almost certainly get caught. Arthur isn’t sure what Cobb and the others would think — well, Ariadne would probably throw a party for them, but she’s new to dreamwork.

Rule number…five or so, probably, of dreamwork is that you don’t fuck other dreamworkers, ever, unless you were already fucking them before you got into the job. It’s a small career pool and nobody needs extra obstacles, and besides you don’t really want to see anyone’s subconscious when you want to fuck them — or even worse, after you’ve already fucked them and now you’re stuck disentangling yourself without saying, “You’re a raging psychopath and likely to dismember and murder me if I stay with you.” Not that the situation happened to Arthur six years ago in Prague with a stupid, stupid architect and far too much tequila. Nothing like that. Never.

Arthur taps his forehead lightly against the bar.  _Stupid, stupid, stupid_ , tap, tap, tap. This is ridiculous and stupid and he should so, so not be here, and he should go home and jerk off and take a sleeping pill and go to work tomorrow like nothing had ever happened. Because nothing _would_  have happened, right, because Arthur would have been actually smart about Eames for once in his life.

But then Eames walks in, and Arthur’s head sort of settles on the bar because even with fiddling with the drinks he’s had enough to need to rest his head for a minute. And he watches Eames walk, because he’s stupid and Eames is so, so beautiful in this flickering sort of half-light. Eames is broad and sweating and wearing something hideously shiny that bounces neon all over everything, and Arthur wants to lick his neck and bite him and fuck him up against a wall. Arthur always wants that, really, but he wants it more than usual and then Eames sees him, grins, strides toward his seat.

“The waters part for you.” Arthur didn’t mean to say that. He’d thought it: people just sort of split for Eames, made way for him. He wasn’t sure if it was because Eames was so big and kind of frightening sometimes, or if it was coincidence, or if Arthur had imagined it. But he hadn’t meant to say that in any event, and now Eames was looking at him with a fond kind of glimmer in his eye.

“I want to make a filthy pun, love, but I won’t. Aren’t you proud?” A grin again, and Eames is so perfect and Arthur kind of hates him sometimes. “I’m growing as a person, you know.”

“I hate you.” It’s empty words, though, because Eames knows it’s not true and Arthur knows it’s not true, and the word that should have been where “hate” was isn’t something they say, and Eames is kissing him soft and sudden, pulling him off the bar, pushing him into a bathroom. 

Arthur’s head bonks into the wall and it hurts, but Eames’s teeth hurt more and in more interesting ways, buried in his neck and tickling down his shoulder. Eames must have pulled off his shirt at some point, and Arthur makes a mental note to find it because it’s a nice shirt, blue silk and — oh, oh, that’s Eames’s tongue and teeth and those fucking lips and yes, yes, yes please.

Eames pulls back, meets Arthur’s eyes. “Anything you need, pet.”

“I said that aloud.” Arthur feels the blush creep up his cheeks. “I should shut up. You should shut me up. If your cock was in my mouth I’d stop talking.”

A filthy grin. “You have the oddest dirty talk.” And then there is unzipping and Arthur is on his knees, hands curled around Eames’s thighs; Eames is bracing against the bathroom door which handily keeps other people from coming in and Eames is moaning, soft and slow, tangling his free hand in Arthur’s hair. This, this, this is what Arthur wants, what he loves: on his knees in the bathroom of a bar he hates, sucking the cock of a man he kind of hates a little bit sometimes. He could come just from the mental image, but oh, god, Eames is tapping his head, staccato little bursts that mean — and there it is, Eames is coming, long slow shuddering spurts and oh god yes, that’s what Arthur wants. 

“What do you want, pet?” Eames is flushed and panting, just a bit because Eames is annoyingly self-controlled sometimes. “Tell me what you want.”

There are a million possible answers. Arthur wants to be fucked, hard and raw against the wall. He wants to take Eames home with him and fuck him, gentle and quiet and soft in bed. He wants to push Eames into the backseat of a cab and shove his head down and come from the sucking and the thrill of the cabbie’s pointed disinterest. He wants to wrestle Eames to the ground and make him beg for it. He wants Eames to handcuff him to a headboard and spend hours teasing his cock with long licks and short sucks. He wants everything Eames can give him, all the time.

“Arthur?” Eames looks concerned, a crinkle in his forehead and those fucking lips turned down at the corners. “Arthur, talk to me.”

“I want you to come home with me.” It spills out and Arthur regrets it for half a breath. Not long enough, and he barrels in. “I want you in my bed, I want you in my kitchen, I want to fuck you anytime instead of every three years. I want to fall asleep and wake up with you. I want you, Eames. I want—”

Eames’s lips are on his, prying them apart, teeth and tongue and breath hot and needy. He groans and talks against Arthur’s mouth, “Yes, yes, god yes, why didn’t you ask sooner, fuck, Arthur, yes.”

It takes them another half hour to get out of the bathroom. Forty-five minutes to make it to a cab. Twenty minutes (during which the cabbie studiously looks anywhere but in the backseat) to get to Arthur’s house. 

It has been six years, ten months, two weeks, and four days since Arthur brought Eames home; four years, one month, three weeks, and two days since Eames sold his last piece of property and brought the last piece of shit he owned into Arthur’s house; three years, eight months, two weeks, and two days since the last time they called it “Arthur’s house”; and two years, five months, three weeks, and one day since they exchanged rings and half-sarcastic vows in front of the team. They have fucked a little over two thousand times, but Arthur stopped counting a while ago.

He counts other things now: five anniversary dinners that have turned into opportunities for semi-public sex. Four vacations together to places with beaches and little umbrellas in the drinks. Three times they’ve talked about adopting a kid. Two years of being semi-retired consultants for Dom’s new dreamwork company. One fat, hideous dog they rescued in Budapest and named Roland for reasons neither of them can quite remember. Zero nights spent apart since that bar’s bathroom and Arthur fucking finally asking.

**Author's Note:**

> [title from "Pacific Street" by Hem]


End file.
